


Capable of Being Terrible.

by backstagebadger



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Recovery, Smoking, all enjolras wanted to do was help grantaire but he got himself into a lot of trouble, enjoltaire - Freeform, grantaire learns to help himself, jewish enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backstagebadger/pseuds/backstagebadger
Summary: It’s a hard semester for everyone, Combeferre and Joly are working an internship, Éponine works two jobs and somehow gets it all done, and Grantaire drinks himself an inch from incoherent every night. Enjolras doesn’t have it worse than anyone - better than most. This year keeps stretching him thinner and thinner. It keeps knocking Enjolras down and, for the first time in twenty-one years, he cannot figure how to get back up again.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. He Always Did.

It was Friday night. Every other student in the city was off doing something fun and frivolous. Enjolras was not. He was not one for fun until work was complete. The blonde man could laugh louder and harder than all of his friends and co-workers combined, but he’d simply have to party on Saturday instead. He was only days out from the start of exams week. Desires could wait. His computer was open on the bed, resting on a red pillowcase and gray sheets. It was playing a documentary film about the Paris Climate Accords that was required for a biology class - his lowest grade this semester was this class. He cared about science and certainly about climate change, but he was just fundamentally bad at the subject. There were others who could handle it. Enjolras could be the change in other areas.

Enjolras did not focus on the monitor, but instead his hand scrawled ferociously in a yellow spiral-bound notebook. One could hardly blame him for his excitement. Not only had he prepared a new pamphlet for his student political organization - which he would need to remember to copy at the library the next day - but he had discovered this American politician called Harvey Milk. He was working on final stage research and outlining for a research project on him for his World LGBT Advocacy class. That remained one of about two classes that were worth him expending a fuck on during this particular semester.

The number of credits he had chosen was much too high. 7 classes (one having a lab) was an irrational choice. It was Enjolras’ first year funding half of his own housing off-campus. He worked a real job. As real as scanning books and accepting payment could be. This, really, was the first year Enjolras had learned that everyone was correct in telling him that he was incapable of doing everything he assumed he could. 

He did not live alone, but it felt like he did. The other half of the rent was supposed to be paid by Combeferre, who had been gracious and helpful and always so willing to do his part. Until he wasn’t and moved out. Combeferre had moved in with a very tall and very stupid man that Enjolras sincerely enjoyed named Courfeyrac. The two men cared terribly for each other, so Enjolras was happy to see them be able to make a sort of home together. Combeferre’s replacement was not gracious or helpful and almost never willing to do his part. René Grantaire had crashed into the apartment like a car fire. Enjolras was decently sure he would not enjoy his time with Grantaire whatsoever; that they would be professional and nothing more to each other. That never happened. Initially, he was very pleased that Grantaire never imposed an organizational system for Enjolras because everything he had sat in stacks, falling off of shelves and spread across each open surface. Grantaire picked up on this philosophy and effortless operated within it. For a while, they seemed to make perfect sense to each other. 

In mornings, Grantaire would get coffee brewing, immediately being able to remember how Enjolras took it. In exchange, Enjolras would sit in destroyed stack of leaflet rough drafts and crack an egg and a shot of hot sauce into a glass for Grantaire. They moved in perfect sync like Aristophanes four-limbed love people. Before too long, they stopped being roommates and started being bedmates. Their relationship lacked definition, but both miraculously kept their affections exclusive and they liked this way.

Then Grantaire’s drinking, once consisting of some wine, a few beers and maybe one or two of something a little stiffer over the course of an entire week turned into several bottles of wine, a case of beer and empty liquor bottles collecting in the trashbagless bin in front of the kitchen sink. So Enjolras tried to take some actions.

The bedroom door swung open. 

“Good evening, mon Ange,” Grantaire often called him this. My Angel. Grantaire thought was funny because he may as well have been saying Mon Enj. My Enjolras. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy...”

Grantaire stood, leading against the doorframe. Whether for physical support or confident swagger was still unclear. He looked bad. Enjolras felt sick to his stomach to consider saying that about this person he cared for, Grantaire could never really look bad to him, but he was glassy eyed and sallow. Grantaire pushed himself off of the door, and walked to the side of the bed, crouching to his knees to throw an arm around Enjolras flat to the bed body. 

“You smell like alcohol.” Enjolras stared plainly.

Grantaire scoffed. “Good nose you’ve got there,” he reached out and gently flicked Enjolras across the nose. “I was, in fact, drinking.”

Enjolras sighed, refusing to look over at his... whatever they were. If he looked at him now, he would get emotional. Hysterical or angry, it wasn’t yet clear which. “We talked about this.”

“I know, but look at me—“

“Hey, how much did you drink?”

“Oh, am I being cross-examined now?”

Enjolras sat up on his knees in bed, Grantaire’s arm sliding away. He was looking at the darker haired man now. His blue-green eyes burned. “No, but I can call a witness, if you’d like...” he extended his fingers to the other side of the bed for his phone. Marius would know. Éponine perhaps was there. Bahoral, or Courf, maybe. Wouldn’t take too many calls to figure it out.

“Lord God Almighty, Enj... Fine. A lot. Lost count after a couple rounds. But it’s Friday. I’m...” Grantaire cleared his throat, trying to sober his voice up some. “I’m not working tomorrow. Big deal. Don’t you ever get tired of talking about ol’ me?”

“Friday’s fantastic, but what about every other day that isn’t Friday?”

“It’s social. I’m social.”

“Grantaire.”

Fuck. “Mhmm?”

Enjolras’ jaw was tight. He was not going to yell. It was after midnight and the neighbors would call their pig of a landlord again. “Couch tonight.”

“It’s Friday!”

“René,” Enjolras had said this in the voice that mothers use when their child doesn’t understand why they can’t keep sticking their hand in the cookie jar. It was not mean, it was firm. Final. Grantaire sat up a little straighter. “Couch. Please. I love you to pieces, but this is getting fucking ridiculous. Sleep it off.”

Slowly, Grantaire raised himself to his full height. “You win. You always win. Happy?” He braced an arm on the bed and leaned down to plant a kiss on the top of Enjoras’ curls. The brunette swiped a discarded blanket off of this ugly leopard print chair that sat in the corner. Grantaire walked through the door, not bothering with a change of clothes for bed and shut it quietly behind him.

Enjolras was far from happy. It had been so truly okay and it’s not anymore. Everything was too much. Homework, organizing that protest, holding the pieces together for Grantaire when there’s clearly more going on than what he wants to share. Grantaire was Enjolras’ most important person and he was going to watch him finish his degree if it killed them both. Dear Reader, do not think for a second that Enjolras believed Grantaire was some kind of burden. He wasn’t. Enjolras loved him too much to ever consider him to be one, he just was unsure of how best to be supportive. No one ever supported Grantaire so Enjolras would simply have to be that person. There were too many things to care about in Enjolras’ life, too many problems. But that had historically been where he thrived. And Enjolras would find the time to fix them all. He always did.


	2. At Work?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come together and immediately fall apart.

Sat. 7:55AM  
Good morrow Sleeping Beauty ! So you’re aware, R called me at the crack of dawn before my shift started. Made me come over and I carted about two boxes of drinks out of your flat. Crazy. You know he drinks Absinth? Apparently it’s 1823...

Sat. 7:58AM  
Big step for R. Good stuff.

Those were the two texts Enjolras woke up to. They were from Combeferre. It was 11:21 when he got them. Christ. 

Enjolras scrambled from the covers, practically tripping over a stack of casebooks he’d checked out from the law library. He’d be late for work before too long. He was upset the night before and made the foolish mistake of not setting an alarm. The blond reached out for a hair tie from the green small dish sitting on the side table with the missing fourth leg beside the leopard print chair and quickly forced his dirty hair into a small bun before dashing out of the bedroom door. The dish was made by Enjolras’ dear and gentle friend Jehan when they took a pottery class for an art credit last semester. On the dish, they had written Putain de Diem. Fuckin’ Day. A very slight modification to the Latin “Carpe Diem.”

The coffee pot was on in the kitchen, but Grantaire was nowhere to be found. (it was a sweet gesture, although one that was quite hazardous as the old pot lacked an automatic off switch.) There was a familiar tall, clear glass in the sink with yellow, yolk-y residue in it. Had Grantaire left? Surely he would return soon. But alternatively, was this really it for them? It was doubtful because certainly Grantaire hadn’t seemed angry enough to leave last night. Right? Oh, but Enjolras rarely saw the other man angry. Enjolras was the angry one. Enjolras’ brain ran two miles a minute. Not normally would he assume the worst, he was fairly optimistic on the grand scale, so he instead stressed over the micro details. Especially details that concerned people he cared for. These thoughts were churning darkly in his head while he reached for his #1 DAD mug. 

This was when the front door swung open. It just slammed open. Enjolras almost dropped his mug in that heart stopping second. He whipped around to see what had happened. Grantaire was locking up the door behind him. A sigh of relief. Two fears crossed off the list.

“Grantaire...”

“You just woke up?”

Enjolras sighed and went about pouring his cup of black coffee with one heaping spoonful of sugar. Grantaire sauntered into the kitchen, grabbing a mug for himself as well.

“Yes. Yeah. I was up kind of late.” Enjolras said. He watched as Grantaire pulled the coffee pot away from him. He watched the dark liquid drip slowly from the clear glass container into Grantaire’s blue hand-sculpted mug. Rarely was Enjolras unsure of what to say. The desperation clutched at his chest. He should say something. He never enjoyed silence. There always needed to be a buzz or a rumble at the least. It was static quiet once Grantaire finished pouring. 

It stayed quiet. Not a buzz from the icemaker, not a rumble from the pipes.

While he reached to get the cream out of the refrigerator, Grantaire said: “Aren’t you going to ask me where I was?”

After all Enjolras’ time spent supplying words for Grantaire, the man finally supplied some for him. Enjolras furrowed his brow and stared at Grantaire’s broad shoulders, shifting his gaze slightly to watch him pour the nearly expired white cream into his dark coffee. Enjolras sipped his own drink. “Where were you?” He repeated.

Grantaire turned around to face Enjolras, brandishing the cream in one hand, attempting to screw the lid on. Enjolras was waiting for him to spill it. “I...” he said, turning slightly to tuck the white and purple carton into the refrigerator. “Went on a run.”

Now, see. This was incredibly perplexing. “A run.”

Grantaire smiled. His smile was just north of impish and west of wolfish. It always had been. It was one of the things Enjolras loved most about Grantaire. Enjolras wondered what had happened to him to make it that way. “Mhmm,” he sipped his coffee. “It was excruciating and it will probably never happen again. I made it a couple blocks and I thought I might faint so I went to the cornerstore and bought a water and some smokes. I am no Achilles.”

This was what really got Enjolras. “Wait, you went to Antonine’s? He’s extremely antisemitic!”

Grantaire crossed his free arm over the one holding the mug. “You’re more surprised I went into a cornerstore than on a run?”

Enjolras pushed a stray hair out of his face. “No, I’m more surprised still that you made Combeferre clean out all the alcohol. Not surprised so much as I am impressed. It... It’s cool that you did that.”

It was quiet again.

Looking back, Enjolras always remembered that this part was so quiet.

Grantaire thought carefully. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I was thinking— Don’t. Lemme finish,” Grantaire said softly, pointing a faux judgmental finger at Enjolras when he tried to jump in to make the monologue a dialogue. “I was thinking about what you said last night,” He stopped again. A pause. “I am not going to quit. I’m not going to magically become sober. But I’m going to back as far away as I can from the stuff without totally losing my marbles. Deal?”

“It’s fair,” it’s a start. This was probably not the best possible choice because there was still opportunity for overdrinking, but it was a great start. Grantaire could go from there. “I’m going to back you in anything that’s in your own best interest,” he said. Grantaire scoffed, just teasingly. That is certainly something Enjolras would say, your own best interest. “It’s a deal.”

“Great. We’re going to seal it with a kiss now.”

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

“Yeah, I haven’t either.” Grantaire learned in, holding his coffee to the side. Enjolras was waiting for him to spill it.

—

Work was a bookstore that was only two metro stops away. This was a pain for Enjolras when one of the trains wasn’t running, but it wasn’t an issue on this particular day. Enjolras forwent a shower and opted to keep his hair up. He was usually clean, but today, a bit filthy. Friends had often jokingly compared him and Grantaire to Plato and Diogenes respectively, but Enjolras felt it was the other way around. Enjolras felt that the older he got, the worse his whole ‘living in squalor’ thing got. He kept everything in stacks and piles and sometime garbage bags - not of garbage. He took out the recycling and bathed and knew exactly where everything was. But he was certainly not organized. Combeferre had a problem with this philosophy and Grantaire did not, so maybe he was just an enabler, even if Grantaire hated Diogenes. Enjolras thought that books on shelves were for show, but books on the floor and flipped over halfway open showed love and use. 

It was early winter. The end of November or beginning of December. The time that university finals usually were. Enjolras wore burgundy coat, decently short. It had two pins on the left lapel. He always thought this color was decently flattering with his bluish eyes and blondish hair. He had no gloves so he put his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. The walk was brief and so was the metro trip. Enjolras decided to read on the train. It was a book - a gift from Grantaire - about historically Roman principles in the modern justice system. Enjolras wondered if it was as dry or monstrous as it sounded. Luckily, it wasn’t; it was biographical and lacked a lot of confirmation bias that works of its age in translation often had. The lights in the train cars were so green in tone that it was often hard to read on these trips to work. Across from him sitting on another blue plastic seat, he watched another young man fiddle with a hashpipe. Oh dear Paris. Always lively.

Once he got to work, it was far from dull. It was a chain bookstore, so the content on the shelves lacked nuanced, but there was truly a brilliant collection of you had enough time to dig deep enough. It was the holiday season and shoppers were frantic. They skittered through the magazine racks like sewer rats. They fought over autographed memoirs and children’s CDs. Every now and then, someone would attempt to bolt out the door, coat full of cheap paperbacks which was exciting. Enjolras always feigned innocence to his manager about seeing them leave and hoped they’d make a good home for what they took. 

Enjolras scanned an Édouard Louis book absently, along with a stack of other items. The older woman in front of him had long brown hair tied into a braid and her expression was soft, but he thought she might have a nasty undertone to her. He quickly bagged her items in a paper sack with the shop’s name pressed on the front. “Have a good afternoon and happy holidays.” Enjolras repeated again with a curt smile. 

“Happy Christmas.” The woman replied directly. 

She was the fourth person to do this on his shift. If one says “happy holidays” and you reply “merry Christmas,” it’s an invitation to knock someone in the teeth. The irritation in him leapt from simmer to boil-over. He simply could not hold back any long. “Happy Hanukkah!” He chirped back sweetly. The woman sneered at him as she left the store. Enjolras smiled brightly at her. He hoped this woman would file complaint with the survey on her receipt, he had always wanted to go to one of the corporate complaint meetings of legend. It was his break now anyhow, so he couldn’t care less.

Enjolras took up the “AWAY” card and placed it at his station and stalked through the store to the back room, past hoards of holiday freaks almost shoving each other in the comics department. Was Batman worth all that? He yanked the black plastic piece out of his ear, effectively silencing the voices that used the company comms for personal jibber-jabber. The break room in the back of the large store was usually empty around this time with not enough employees to go around during this time of year. A tall, dark haired man was in the break room. He worked there obviously. Enjolras didn’t know his name yet because he was newer to the store. It was strange that he didn’t know his name; he always tried to learn names. It was a mark of equality and respect. He hated being called Hey-You by people who should know his name. The man’s boney back was to the door so the two did not acknowledge one another. Enjoras walked to the cabinet above the sink to pull out his metal water bottle and book again. He cracked the spine and flipped to his page, flagged with a pharmacy receipt from a week ago, as he walked to sit a few chairs away from the man at the beige break room table. 

This moment stands out in Enjolras’ brain to this day. This would mark the first time Enjolras had ever observed someone doing cocaine in his entire twenty-one years. He had friends who had dabbled and were left with horror stories or one-off success stories, but he had never really seen it. It’s not as beautiful as it is in the movies. It seems habitual and ugly. Doing cocaine is a routine for its frequent flyers. The man had a small plastic vile and had poured some onto the inside of his left fist where his thumb met his hand. He raised it carefully, like it were a reverent object, to her right nostril. He crossed his right hand over the left and held the other nostril shut. He inhaled sharply, causing his upper lip to rise into a sneer. He swallowed thickly and blinked rapidly a few times. The man then looked and Enjolras and smiled like manic fox with wicked green eyes. Enjolras knew it was rude to stare, but he did not stop.

“Oh, what... Mad I won’t share?”

Enjolras didn’t know what to say to this. “Uh, haha. No. I’ve just...” Come on, you. The truth. “Never seen a person... Was that cocaine?”

“Sure.”

“Huh.” That was as silly thing to say. He looked frantically down at his book in hopes that this would all just stop. He wasn’t really reading, he was pretending to read to avoid further conversation and he was distracting himself by itemizing the homework he would need to complete that evening in his head.

Suddenly, the vile was slid right in front of his book. Enjolras glanced at it for a second and then looked at the man through his dirty curls, expression incredulous. He was on the job. At work. Maybe some other time at a bar or home. At work? At work! “Seriously?” He said. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your name, man. No thanks.”

“It’s expensive stuff. You’re interesting. Take it. It’s the end of the bag.”

“No, I know how this works. You’re going to get me busted for possession,” he gesticulated wildly, leaning one hand on the table, leering at this man. “You’re planting it on me. I have a problem with this. I wasn’t going to the boss on you because I didn’t care. But if you’re trying to—“

The man laughed. “No, you have a stick up your ass. I think you could just benefit from it.”

“I could benefit. From cocaine? Oh, is there some mysterious medicinal cocaine therapy program I don’t know about? Or are you going to charge me for it after I stupidly take it?”

“Listen, it’s here if you want it. No charge. You seem smart. You’d probably get more done with it, who knows.”

—

“Jo, why are you here?”

Enjolras and Éponine stood on the loading dock of the large office supply store Éponine worked at. She was in a kitschy, itchy red polo shirt with the store’s logo on it the left breast pocket. Normally, she would never wear this, so it was amusing. Enjolras watched her tongue her lip ring impatiently. He was confident she would know how to get rid of the thing burning a hole in his pocket.

“There was an... altercation at work.”

“Okay... Define alterc—“ Enjolras pulled out the small container of what was clearly cocaine from his jacket pocket. Éponine’s eyes widened. She looked frantically around. “Holy shit, put that away right now!” She whispered. “Where did you get that?”

“Work?”

“Work?”

“Yeah, some guy. He just. He gave it to me.”

“Enjolras, he’s going to—“

“I know and I’m terrified. What do I do with this... This stuff...”

“Well, uh...”

“Éponine, first off. I can’t bring it home. What if this fucker does call the police on me?”

Éponine sighed. “I really don’t think he’s going to. Because you can prove who gave it to you,” She used the hair tie on her wrist to pull her long brown hair into a ponytail. It looked great in a ponytail since she shaved it up the side like that about a week ago. “He probably thought you were attractive. That or he’s a mule, trying to get people hooked.”

“Oh.”

“Honestly, if I were you, Jo, I’d do one of two things: pitch it or give it to R.”

“Excuse me?” He was a touch furious. On the way to furious at the drop of a hat. He’d had anger issues since childhood and he was so confused in this instance that his only outlet was ferocity.

Éponine crossed her arms. “Look, I’ve got a headache, okay, you fucking clown. Keep your voice down. Yes. You can throw it in the trash— NOT here. A public trash can in, like, a fast food bag after you wipe it for prints. It’s anonymous.”

“But what if someone found it. I’d feel guilty to add to a,” he cleared his throat. “A local drug problem. Y’know?”

“That’s really your best shot if you don’t want to give it R.”

“Éponine, I refuse to do that. That’s a fucking absurd, out of the question suggestion. No. End of story.”

“You know he used to deal, right? He might still be able to push it to some connections if he doesn’t just—“

“No. He’s clean.”

“Last night, he—“

“As of THIS morning, he is trying for clean.”

Éponine’s faced softened. “Seriously? Wow, he must really like you.” She smiled a bit.

Enjolras put a hand over his face slightly to hide a slight blush, passing it off as running a hand through his long bangs. “Y-yeah, or something like that. Whatever. Fact of the matter is, uh, no. I’m not giving it to him.”

“Then I can’t help you. Give it back, I dunno. I gotta head back in. Come see me at work when you don’t need something to make up for this some time. Love you, Jo.” She leaned in, kissing him on both cheeks. 

“Please don’t tell Grantaire about this. Please. I’ll get rid of it.” Éponine was a dear friend of his because Grantaire had her around so often. Those two were childhood best friends to the point of being inseparable. Enjolras had no choice but to love her, which he easily did. She is the best artificial sister-in-law-ish he could have been forced into having.

“I know. I won’t. You know I don’t snitch.”

“Thanks for nothing! I love you.” Enjolras said as he scaled down clumsily down the loading dock after quickly embracing his friend.

“See you tomorrow, dickbag,” She called over her shoulder. “Good lord, what a fool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon. It’s representative of what’s to come. HAPPY HANUKKAH TO MY JEWISH READERS.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @tired-enjolras.


	3. Fucked Up Atlas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is full of choices and sometimes we make less than successful ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright fellas, this one has HEAVY drug use portrayed in it. Do not read if that is difficult for you. It is difficult for me too, so know you are not alone and I am here if you need support. You don’t have to face the world alone.

Enjolras sat at his kitchen table. There was a scratch across its length from this one time Combeferre had dragged Enjolras’ menorah across the table instead of picking it up and placing it. It was also covered in soot from candle matches and cigarettes by way of an overflowing ashtray that Enjolras hated to clean. He would incentivize Grantaire to do it later, because it was getting ridiculous. His head sat on top of his folded arms. Across from him sat his match: the container of illicit substance he had obtained. Grantaire was not due for another hour or so. He was allegedly doing research at the library late into the evening for his semester end thesis on repressed homosexuality in The Orestia in different translations. Grantaire was a fascinating man that way.

Back to the plan. He had one hour to get rid of this stuff.

An idea manifested:

He did a web search for _effects of cocaine on human body._

Before he even looked at the search results, he closed the tab. That was foolish. Enjolras would not be doing that. It could be laced, too. There was no way of predicting that from a quick search.

But he didn’t want it in the house at the same time as Grantaire at a difficult time. Not that he needed to be babied, but it would be easier for it to be eliminated and unknown. And it wouldn’t be in the house, necessarily, if it were in Enjolras. He searched that term again. Surely, Combeferre would know what to do in the case of an overdose. God, how much would he even take? There wasn’t much left, but the stuff was little and fierce. And it wasn’t as if Enjolras were kind of some small guy. He was in great shape, he was tall (tall enough, anyway), he was twenty-one. A bit of a smoker, but not as much as many of his friends. He would just do it and sleep it off. He’d been high once or twice, given those drugs were not...

This was insane.

He planted his cell phone face down on the table. That would be it, then. Enjolras would have to self-destruct here. He would bear this burden for the safety of everyone else. One bad day so everyone else could have a safe one. The trolley paradox; death of the few for the safety of the many. It was ethics, Enjolras understood ethics better than anyone he knew. It would be once, he’d been fine and then it would never happen again and he’d never tell a soul. He would much rather something happen to him than Grantaire or anyone else for that matter. If he kept telling himself this was out of necessity, maybe he would start believing it. Some kind of fucked up Atlas he was.

Enjolras unscrewed the small plastic cap on the vessel holding the powdery substance. It didn’t have an immediate odor or anything. He wasn’t really sure how to take... Do? How to do the drug, just how he had observed that afternoon and in the movies. Real life was never like the movies. That was Éponine’s mantra. She would kill him if she were here.

Enjolras thought back to Hebrew school. He was not religious at this point in his life, but he was raised to be so. He was still Jewish enough to be a Jew; ethnic enough. There was no such thing as ‘Jewish enough,’ he thought. Ultimately, he still had a fear of fucking up and doing something unconscionable, or something seen as selfish in front of Heaven, or whatever. His religious past involved a person that he no longer was, but he was still the same enough to light the menorah and go to the synagogue or community center with his parents when he was in town. He had just never worn a kippah or read the Talmud.

It was fine. He felt that he needed to pray right now so he was going to. This was a shitty situation, but Enjolras in his currently warped idea of what was ethical, it seemed an unselfish situation. His father had a deathly fear of air travel, so Enjorlas settled the prayer his father said on planes before takeoff. He remembered it because his father always said it with this extremely heavy fear of death. This fear was almost excessively comical, actually. But this was the only prayer Enjolras remembered, except the one he used to say before math testing in lower school. His father’s prayer was probably a prayer to skirt death or one for safe travels and Enjolras really could use either one.

He completed what of the prayer he could remember, which was luckily more than he thought, and he looked at the clock on the microwave. Enjolras had spent fifteen minutes mulling it over. Juries sometimes completed convictions in less. It was settled.

With as much reverence as possible, Enjolras put a small clump on the dirty table he had attempted to thin out with a business card for a computer repair joint. He’d dug up a hollow plastic coffee stir to aid in inhaling it.

With a frown on his broad lips, he looked down at it for a long moment. This would be an important moment later in his life, but he did not know that now. “Putain de Diem and for a brighter tomorrow.” This was Enjolras for “Fuck it.”

Just like that, the powder was gone and there was a funny smell and aftertaste where his nose met his throat. No change. No new feelings. It hadn’t work. Not once had Enjolras stopped to consider that this could be flour. Enjolras tried to stand up as he sniffed and coughed a bit.

Oh, no. Never mind. Enjolras finally understood classic American author and Beat poet, William S. Burroughs. The hit of trash had certainly crept up his spine.

-

Now, the remainder of the hour it took for Grantaire to return home may as well not have existed in the life of Enjolras, but what follows are some events that likely did occur to the best of his recollection and or from evidence based context clues:

He’s almost certain he started with the table because that’s where he was when this all began. Enjolras almost certainly trashed all the evidence and then emptied the ashtray and moved all the scattered books and assorted piles of papers on the table into more organized ones. All the leaflets he’d printed after work were stapled, which did save him the begrudging trouble of doing it later that evening. At some point, he’d taken all the sheets and pillowcases off of the bed and he wasn’t sure where they had ended up. For a little while, the blonde had an anxious pang that he had somehow incinerated them, but that was impossible. But the fear did not go away for a very long time.

Then, in a blackout spiral, he had seemingly completed the paper he started two days ago, the one he was working on about Harvey Milk the prior evening. Enjolras did not remember that he did this until the next morning when he woke up early to finish it and found it finished on his hard drive. He’d only had to edit it for minor spelling errors, add his citations andremove one tangential paragraph about his own first-person perspective thoughts on the Sham-Fallacy of the Widely Used and Un-Outlawed Twinkie and Chewbacca Defenses in the Barbaric American Legal System. The paper was surprisingly not terrible. Do not base your opinions of it on this particular paragraph.

One thing Enjolras did fully recall was how clear and focused everything was. It was like he was a carriage horse wearing blinders. Everything in front of him was represented in stark, full-color, high-gloss clarity, but the edges and the passage of time did not exist. He was alone in vacuum with what was right in front of him and nothing else at all. None of this was like the movies, truly. Enjolras completed many menial tasks, but he felt motion sick the entire time. In fact, he longed to vomit to get the great, terrible feeling out from underneath his skin as it crawled from his neck, down his arms and into his long fingers. Maybe then he could use his peripheries again. He worried he would stay like this forever. Enjolras remembered that this experience was only made up of extreme opposites. In more than one way, this had been comforting because Enjolras was made up of a perfect balance of extreme opposites and found solace in knowing something felt the same way he did. Notably, though: this had not killed him for the time being, which was all he needed to get out of this occasion. Mazel tov. Thank you, God.

The first thing that actually broke through the too sharp and clear haze was the front door unlocking. Enjolras’ consciousness projected back into his body at that moment.  _ Act normal at all costs. _ He looked into the mirror in the bathroom attached to his bedroom. Totally sober passing and normal. His pupils weren’t that dilated. Grantaire was hardly observant enough to notice. No raving madman looking back at him in the mirror anymore than usual.

“Christ, Mon Ange. Turn the radio down.”

Had the radio been on? How long had the radio been on? Enjolras was suddenly hearing the radio too. Before, everything was polaroid film. Photos stopping at the wide white edges. Now everything snapped back into sweeping landscapes in vivid oil paint. The station was the local college station they both favored (they favored it because Jehan and Éponine had programs in the afternoons on weekdays). Enjolras scrambled for the radio and the dials on the front. This was surprisingly difficult because he didn’t feel like his feet were moving, but it seemed that they were. Enjolras bumped into the counter while he fiddled with the dials to shut the radio off.

Enjolras nodded at Grantaire, acknowledging his presence. Grantaire smiled scantly and walked into the kitchen. He was wearing his glasses. The library vents dried out his contacts so he always wore his brown, round glasses with the high nose bridge to the library. Enjolras always thought they made Grantaire look scholarly since he often did not.

“Grantaire, I believe that your glasses make you look exceptionally intelligent.” Enjolras said with conviction and total seriousness.

“Uh, thank you, you fucking oddball?” 

That was apparently not normal and, in fact, a very strange thing to say.

Grantaire leaned over and kissed Enjolras softly anyway. They usually made an effort to at least kiss the other when re-entering the apartment before going about their business. It must be getting colder out. Enjolras asserted this because Grantaire’s lips felt slightly chilled, but more specifically, chapped. Grantaire was fidgety and may have just been picking at his lip in the library.

Sharply, Enjolras pulled away, putting a hand on Grantaire’s firm chest. Grantaire was a boxer and this showed, especially now under his tight long sleeved shirt. He had done it in rings and things in the past, but mostly boxed at gyms now. Enjolras thought he was probably good enough to teach, but Grantaire disagreed. Enjolras would not mention any of this out of fear of humiliation in his compromised state again. He had only pulled away from Grantaire because he remembered the bedroom. “One second, R.”

Enjolras practically ran to the bedroom. No sheets. Ha! He had done something with them. Enjolras dashed back into the kitchen. “I will be back, I have just realized that I washed all the bedding and left it in the washer downstairs maybe an hour ago. Time moves weirdly, so it could have been less than an hour.” Enjolras quickly kissed a confused, but not concerned Grantaire on the side of the face and bolted out the front door after a tumultuous struggle with the deadbolt. He made it perhaps fifteen steps, just the the door to the stairs to the basement, before he vomited in the middle of the hallway.


	4. Maybe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter full of introductions and firsts and two men embracing each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, mentions of drug abuse and rationalizations. Disclaimer here that I am Jewish.

Enjolras woke up in bed with a splitting headache. The reason for this was probably for the lack of dopamine after the dopamine explosion he’d experienced the night before. Enjolras had never been blackout drunk before, so he didn’t have anything to compare this to, but he had so many gaps in his memory of the previous evening and night. They were just touchable, flickering super sixteen film frames flashing behind his eyes, but they were so much less clear than they were while they were occurring, which was still hardly clear at all. If he could only reach out and grab them. If he could hold the film of yesterday up the the light and look at each frame close up. The headache was making this all worse. It was a light sensitivity more than a normal stress headache, or a blunt-force headache. His nose was running a little, a translucent drip out of one nostril. His chest hurt too. His heart almost ached from beating so quickly yesterday. His body could have been in worse shape and he was sure he’d be fine by late afternoon, but this tiny white powder had so effortless knocked Enjolras on his ass. He wanted to say something, to scream, to pull at his hair, to kick himself for being so stupid. All that came out was a small groan and a cough.

The warm arm thrown around his bare lower back shifted. It was Grantaire. A Grantaire that was certainly happy to be in a bed after a night spent on the couch. Grantaire slept like the dead, but he wasn’t particularly difficult to drag back into consciousness. Enjolras was sprawled with his head on Grantaire’s chest and his legs kind of sideways off the other side of the bed. Enjolras hoped he wasn’t getting snot or brain fluid on Grantaire’s chest. With the weight of the world, Enjolras lifted a hand to press against waking Grantaire’s chest. His left fingers casually bumped against one of Grantaire’s nipple piercings. He had apparently gotten them many moons ago from a tattoo parlor offering a discount for the holidays with the price of ink and rings. This was before Enjolras knew him. That Grantaire was someone else’s, Enjolras was just trying to figure out who’s and how.

“Angel?”

“Yeah?” Enjolras tried to reach up, wipe his nose, fix his hair. The longer he tried to hold his eyes open, the more he could concretely recall and the less everything hurt so badly.

Grantaire flattened his hand, sliding it further up Enjolras’ back. Enjolras wondered if he could feel how erratically his heart was beating last night. He wondered if Grantaire could feel how stupid he had been. “How long’ve you been up?” Enjolras shrugged. He honestly didn’t know. Minutes, hours. All night, perhaps. Cocaine made more time. His environment was materializing or stabilizing around him. He was existing in space now, no longer on his own plane. “Feeling better?”

Oh, the vomit. “Better. I... I told you: too much coffee, not enough water. It happens.” Other than the nasal drip, everything was starting to go dissipate. He could handle this. A painkiller, water, toast. Not as bad as a broken nose or a dislocated shoulder anymore. He’d be just fine, it seemed. He told himself he would be better and that this particular chapter in his story had ended.

“You have work?” Grantaire pulled Enjolras impossibly closer, bare chest to bare chest. If Enjolras’ head hadn’t been a million miles away in the stratosphere, he would’ve blushed. Their relationship was humiliating that way. Grantaire wasn’t even his partner or anything like that. Not specifically. Just a bedfellow; a friend. Surely. Sometimes in public among friends, they would act like only roommates. But sometimes they would just act like lovers. It was messy. But so were they. They were both so messy.

“Evening. ‘M closing tonight. People always come in right at closing.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Grantaire smiled. Enjolras looked at him. The distant archer, Orion, tattooed on Grantaire’s neck was the only observer of how the two looked at each other. “You busy this afternoon?”

“Guess not. Oh, fuck. My paper. Let me check on that before I make promises I can’t keep.”

“How’s Harvey Milk?”

“Well, he’s dead. But the paper’s going fine.”

Grantaire grinned again. When he did smile, usually only for his friends, it was blinding. Enjolras wished others got to see it as often as he did. “We’re each getting a different degree in dead homosexuals, aren’t we?”

“You might be. Mine is in making sure they can stay alive to tell their own stories.” Enjolras said. Grantaire leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t a good morning kiss, it was an I-love-you kiss, but neither one of them had the vocabulary to explain it that far. Anyone watching would know that a kiss like this is between old folks after years and years of being unbearably together. Both of their souls were very old, though unbelievably bound. It was silly to say, but they were meant to belong together. A pair of shoes with worn, unmatching laces.

Grantaire pulled away. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

If only that were true. Too foolish, maybe.

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras said with an eye roll. He looked down, avoiding Grantaire’s set green gaze with some shame in his eyes. “Can you pass me my phone please?” He asked, using Grantaire’s chest to push himself up, half straddling the other man. He blinked his blue eyes to adjust to the stark shadow and light coming through the shuttered blinds of the room’s single window.

Grantaire yawned, reaching blindly for the side table. Enjolras watched him through half-lidded eyes. Grantaire was scruffy and built and loud and rough around the edges. He could hit hard but he was capable of loving so much harder. That was a secret that few knew about him. This morning, his eyes were clear. They usually weren’t. It was nice to see, Enjolras thought. “Your hair’s getting really long.”

“Yeah, I know. I should probably—“

“No. Uh, no. It looks nice.” Enjolras did not love the same way that Grantaire did. He loved silently and from across oceans. It would be kept secret and then the secret would die with him. This time, he was trying to not do that. He was trying to give the information like speech instead of believing that Grantaire was receiving his telepathic telegraph. 

Grantaire handed Enjolras his phone with a wry glance. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Keep it.” Enjolras said film with a delicate smile. One that was returned and matched and exceeded by Grantaire’s. Enjolras unlocked his phone to a missed call and a handful of messages. Enjolras’ eyes screamed from the screen’s brightness as he frantically pulled the brightness down. Squinting with the heel of his hand to his forehead, Enjolras checked the messages. 

MAMAN MISSED CALL  
7:41AM

MAMAN  
7:42AM  
Good morning, ma raison d’être!

MAMAN  
7:44AM  
Calling to check up. Did not hear from you yesterday. How is end of term? Also calling to check about holiday plans! You’re coming home for Hanukkah I’m sure. Bringing anyone? Need to know how many places to set. Much love! Call soon!

PÉRE  
7:42AM  
Please call your mother.

MARIUS:  
9:03AM  
What time is the calc final??? Help.......

Enjolras groaned, allowing his palm to slide over his eyes. Grantaire placed his too weathered hands low on Enjolras’ hips. “What’s up?” Grantaire asked.

“Oy vey...”

“What’s up that’s bad enough to make you speak Yiddish?”

“My mother wants me to come home for the holidays.”

Grantaire sighed. This was always a tense subject for the two of them (both) so neither ever brought it up. “Are you going?”

“I...” there was a break in his speech. Enjolras was an adult. He could simply choose to not go home. “She’s not giving me a choice. Should I tell her no? Are you going home?” Enjolras didn’t want Grantaire to be alone for a number of reasons that you could probably guess.

“So my mom can yell at me in three languages?”

“Fair,” Enjolras sighed and removed his hand from his face. “I would feel intensely guilty not going home.” He looked down at Grantaire.

“It’s your life, you don’t have to let your mother make you feel bad about shit.”

“I’m Jewish. Guilt’s our thing, it seems,” he frowned. “I also don’t want you to be here alone, though.”

“Mon Ange, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“I know, but you’re my... It’s, uh, lame to be alone at the holidays.”

“‘Ponine could stay over. God only knows how much she hates going home. I don’t care much about all this. You know that.”

And Enjolras blurted it out. “I’m going to go home out of obligation, but there is a place for you there if you’d like it.”

Oh fuck.

“Oh fuck. Are you serious?” Grantaire’s strong Russian nose hardened more as he brought his brow down to meet where it started.

Enjolras’ own nose started to drip again, he thought he felt something starting to pour out again and tried to sniffle and brush the backs of his left fingers against it. He couldn’t take back his actions or his words. Everything was permanent and he always knew that. “Why would I have said it if I weren’t?”

“I... Dunno.” Grantaire did know and it had something to do with how he was never any kind of boy anyone took home to their parents as a partner, friend or roommate to make a good impression. Especially not Enjolras’ parents.

“I’m not, like, going to make you come with me, but they want me because because Hanukkah’s late this year. It overlapped with finals last year. This time, it stretches through New Year’s. You can think about it. It’s a few weeks away.”

“Alain,” Grantaire never used Enjolras’ first name. This was maybe the second or third time he had ever used it around him and this was supremely jarring. Enjolras called Grantaire Réne much more often, and that was rare too. Grantaire scratched his chin. His eyes, expressive as always, looked nervous. Enjolras didn’t want to make him nervous and he did far too much. They were both reckless in different ways. “Do they know you’re...”

Alain Enjolras’ parents did know most things about him, but they did not try to understand any of these things. You’re... Gay, agnostic, transgender, proud wearer of a tongue ring, completely immodest, political, sleeping in the same bed as another man right now. Any of these would do.

“To some extent. They just don’t like thinking or talking about it as much as I do. As long as I pass the Bar Exam in a few years, I’ll be in perfect standing with them.”

Grantaire tossed his hands up. “You’re one of about three people I would drink Kosher wine for. I’ll think about it.”

-

Enjolras’ laptop lingered forgotten on the couch, screen dark with the lid half open. It was silver and had a single sticker on the lid: a black and blue large bumper sticker that read 2-4-6-8 IS THAT COPPER REALLY STRAIGHT? in white police-style lettering. He got a lot of rude questions about it in public. Jehan had gotten one similar with him the same day. Theirs was purple and said ARMS ARE FOR HUGGING and was pasted on their guitar case. Enjolras wiggled a finger on the touchpad and the computer came to life. A document was open. His paper, I told you he’d forgotten about it earlier. Twelve pages. Longer than the required word count. A miracle. 

Quickly, Enjolras tried to proof it. He figured this was too good to be true. A paper accidentally written on hard drugs and forgotten about. It wasn’t bad with sober eyes either. If he out of the rambling and bias, it would be worth turn in. It was a beautiful accident. “R, paper’s done. I’m not busy.” Enjolras shouted over his shoulder.

This was bizarre. Grantaire was saying something, he was always saying something. Enjolras couldn’t hear it. He was too busy staring at his screen. Time stopped again. How had he managed that? He raised his right hand to what had become a dull stabbing in his head. That was the only price for such increased productivity? Time stopped. Enjolras felt like he was always running against the clock. He didn’t have enough time to learn, to love, to organize, to be someone his parents were proud of. Cocaine gave him more time. Maybe he could use it and stop time for a few minutes. Maybe he would get used to the side effects. It was a lot of maybes, but life was only chances and maybes and what ifs. Joan of Arc had only blind faith and look how much she did. 

“Mon Ange?”

“Hm?” Enjolras looked up. “Sorry. Just thinking about this paper.” Just thinking about how it was completed in a flash.

“Understood. I was just saying that...” and Grantaire launched into another one of his drunk stories told sober. Grantaire had a magnificent gift for storytelling. Any format: music, paint, writing. He was a cynical minstrel, a depressed bard. Orpheus. Enjolras smiled at him and tried to listen, but he just had a big nagging weight on his back while he watched the brunette man unceremoniously dump coffee grounds into the coffeemaker. He watched as the man didn’t reach for Bailey’s or Greygoose to pour a few fingers worth into the bottom of his coffee mug. Enjolras couldn’t blow or disrupt Grantaire’s game right now. His eyes were so bright when he wasn’t pulled down with his own sorrows.

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will go in many different directions. This work is not meant to romanticize. This is very personal for me and I hope everyone can learn something or relate in someway. We can all do with learning to ask for help.
> 
> Quick rundown of everyone’s degree program:
> 
> •Enjolras: Gender Studies with Pre-Law program.  
> •Grantaire: Classical Civilizations.  
> •Combeferre: Biology with Pre-Med program.  
> •Courfeyrac: Theatre.  
> •Marius: Economics.  
> •Cosette: Theatre and Education double major.  
> •Éponine: Film Studies.  
> •Jehan: Literature with a concentration in Creative Writing.  
> •Joly: Biology with Pre-Med program.  
> •Feuilly: International Affairs.  
> •Bahoral: Early Childhood Education.  
> •Bosset: Literature.  
> •Additionally, Valjean is a professor of religion.
> 
> Thank you immensely for reading. My tumblr is @tired-enjolras if you are interested.


End file.
